


Push/Pull

by Cashmere21



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/M, One Long Conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cashmere21/pseuds/Cashmere21
Summary: She stops half way to him, her hands fingering the front of her shirt.  He sees it as a sign of nervousness, but wonders if it is all part of an act, to appear so young and naïve.‘Hello, Habibi.’ Her voice is clean and crisp, a discernible British accent, pronouncing her clean vowels and sharp consonants.‘Hi.’ He replies.  His eyes lift leisurely from her brightly painted toenails to the top of her head.  She cocks her head, inviting him to carry on in his perusal.  It is as if she could feel his gaze on her, more intense than the ones she is used to.*Or our dear boy Ben becomes interested in a certain dancer at a Gentlemen's club Hux takes him to.  He finally manages to have a few words with the girl he wants to get to know better.





	Push/Pull

Time…

Time is simply a measurement. Like depth, or width, or length. It’s an intangible dimension, but also a predominantly personal perception. 

One individual’s lifetime is another’s heartbeat. A blink, an hour, a moment, a decade, an age, a second. 

Vastly different to each person, and yet all the same.

Ben doesn’t know how long he’s been watching her. It could have been minutes, or a mere millennium. 

He blinks and sees her move from the shadows below onto the illuminated podium above. The countenances of her face and body, convex and concave, swaying in and out of light and dark. Her form shifting to a rhythm of its own and time slows, speeds up, ceases to exist entirely. 

He blinks again, and she is gone, replaced by the next dancer, the next moving body. 

Hux is under the misconception that he, Hux, has managed to convince him, Ben, to come back to his private members club. That this venue and activity – watching barely dressed women dancing – is a terrific opportunity for male bonding. 

The first visit had been a drunken blunder. 

After few too many whiskeys, the condescending goading about his non-existent love or social life from his employee had worn him down. 

The loneliness and simple tedium of his existence had persuaded him to accept Hux’s proposition. 

Ben had gone under minor protest, demanding Hux to entertain him with conversation, even if it was delivered in Hux’s pompous way.

That was until he’d seen her. 

Her, oh what a thing to behold.

His mind cleared, his boredom turned to alert curiosity. A humming deep within his chest rearranged his being back into place, and for the first time in a long while he felt his lungs filling with fresh air after having been constricted for far too long.

This wasn’t love at first. He felt attraction towards her, yes. Lust, definitely. Obsession, probably.

The fourth visit in as many weeks has been a direct result of the need to see her again. Not that he voices that interest aloud. The possibility of not seeing her again is too raw for him to acknowledge.

Even to himself.

*

‘I’ve organised something for you.’ He feels Hux’s hand at his elbow and wonders when his companion had closed the distance. 

‘I know why you’re here.’ The contact ends, he notes Hux’s wink and his signal to a women standing close by.

‘What did you do?’ Ben asks, his lips working, nerves and anger mixing to form a temperamental outburst. If he previously disliked Hux, he could quite possibly detest him now. 

Before his employee can reply, Ben turns at the feeling of a different hand on his shoulder.

‘Mr Solo, if you would follow me, please.’ The woman says next to him. She leans over him, hinting at familiarity, whilst remaining behind a fence of firm formality.

She leads him away from the main room, down a long, dark hallway, to one of the private rooms. The space is set up like a library, with a dark muted décor, leather and mahogany furniture, inferring masculinity, comfort and a certain amount of intimacy. 

‘Please wait here. Your dancer will be with you shortly.’ The woman departs, shutting the door softly behind her. Ben walks to the drinks cabinet and regards the selection before pouring himself another whiskey.

He moves to the only sofa in the room, a pristine chesterfield. The leather is soft under his fingertips, it feels like velvet. He undoes the buttons on his suit jacket and sits, keeping his elbows on his knees, twisting his drink between his hands. 

The room is quiet, even though he knows there a hustle and bustle happening just on the other side of the door. 

All along the perimeter there are cabinets, books upon books covering each shelf. There is a faint hint of old cigar smoke and rye. 

A worn Persian rug sits under his feet. 

And then she is there.

*

Her. 

The woman he could spend a century watching. She enters his room, bare feet, wearing a man’s white dress shirt. 

Her curled hair falls past her shoulders down to the middle of her back. Her eyes are an intense hazel, eyelids made up with smoky grey hues. 

She looks young. Not indecently so, but with an innocence that seems totally unbefitting this place.

She looks untouched, untainted. 

Her movements are languid and graceful, the softest sway to her slim hips, the heels of her feet barely touching the wooden floor.

She stops half way to him, her hands fingering the front of her shirt. He sees it as a sign of nervousness, but wonders if it is all part of an act, to appear so young and naive.

‘Hello, Habibi.’ Her voice is clean and crisp, a discernible British accent, pronouncing her clean vowels and sharp consonants.

‘Hi.’ He replies. His eyes lift leisurely from her brightly painted toenails to the top of her head. She cocks her head, inviting him to carry on in his perusal. It is as if she could feel his gaze on her, more intense than the ones she is used to. 

Gliding to one of the shelving units, she moves something to locate the hidden device and switches on some music. It is unobtrusive, a low thrumming bass drums a rhythm she moves to.

Her fingers wave behind her, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. ‘Is this OK with you?’ 

She closes the distance. Her fingers float tentatively along her sides before unbuttoning her shirt so slowly he feels time reduce again.

Seconds to hours. 

Hours to days.

Days to weeks.

Letting the shirt slip from her shoulders, she exposes, what seems to him, miles and miles of soft and supple skin and lacy white underwear. 

‘I see you’ve helped yourself to a drink.’

He nods languidly, taking a sip as if on cue. Ben pushes his body back into the seat of the sofa, right arm slings over the back, left arm holding his drink on the armrest. 

As she slips between his legs, she begins to gyrate her hips to the beat of the music. His eyes bore into her body, scrutinising every single swing her shape creates. 

Hypnotized. Mesmerized. Transfixed.

Ben’s gaze reaches her eyes, and for a moment he examines her face, noticing a splattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks. 

That deep-rooted sense of self-loathing bubbles up from his stomach, which both surprises and frustrates him. 

What is he doing here with her? She looks barely old enough to vote.

She eyes him, curious, her movement slowing but not stilling. 

‘You seem uncomfortable. You don’t want to be here?’ Her body twist seductively. ‘Just relax and enjoy this.’ Her hands reach for his shoulders, as if to steady herself, whilst draping her body over his lap.

He grabs her wrist, halting her action abruptly. ‘You don’t… have to.’ 

Ben considers her for a moment as his head falls into the nape of his neck. Throat grumbling with a groan of annoyance as he fixes his eyes on hers. He is unable to hide the indecision crossing his countenance. ‘No, stop.’

The girl frees her wrist from his grasps, turns his hand slowly to kiss his palm, looking at his forearm whilst her lips hover over his lifeline. She gingerly lets his fingers touch her chin before pinning him with her gaze. 

‘You’re not into boys, are you? Because we can cater to your every wish.’

Ben shakes his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts. ‘You want a drink?’ He asks.

‘Don’t drink during work. And you didn’t answer my question.’

He shakes his head a second time. ‘No, I want you.’ The amber liquid circles the glass within his hand.

‘We can just talk if you prefer.’ She slides to her knees gracefully, sinks down in-between his open legs. 

His glass is raised gradually, and he empties it in one large gulp. ‘Yes.’

‘What would you like to talk about?’

The sofa creaks quietly whilst he shifts his weight. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Kira.’

‘Just Kira?’

‘Does it matter?’ Her face is open and non-confrontational; however, he suspects she is playing a game. 

She is not what you expected, is she…? She’s mischievous.

‘No, I guess it doesn’t.’ His eyes do not leave hers. ‘How long have you been doing this?’

‘I’m old enough, if that is what you are asking.’

He worries his lips again. ‘I’m not.’ Fingertips yearn to reach out and stroke her seemingly silky skinned cheek. ‘Somebody like you shouldn’t be here.’

She tilts her head to the side raising an eyebrow. Her voice takes on a playful tone. ‘Ah, you want to save me from this wicked life?’ Even her chuckle at his expense has him thinking of otherworldly purity. 

His hands itch to touch the dimple that appears on her cheek. ‘You can’t tell me this is what you dreamed of doing when you were a little girl.’

‘I hardly remember what I wanted to do when I was a girl. And anyway, nobody does what they dream of doing when they were young.’

A silence builds between them. 

He’s still unsure of her, and now he is even more uncertain of what he feels for her. Either she doesn’t know who he is, or she just doesn’t care. 

She is unlike anybody you've ever met. 

The thought, that his name doesn’t matter to her, fills him with a sad little sliver of happiness. 

The steadiness of her eyes on him makes him swallow and turns him back to the weedy seventeen-year-old geek he once was. Something that hasn’t happened since he was a weedy seventeen-year-old. ‘But you love it?’ 

She smirks at his hesitant question. ‘Are you asking me if it turns me on? Sometimes.’ There is a definite hint of flirtation in her tone.

Games, she’s playing games with you.

He shakes his head, as if to wake up from the magic she is weaving around him.

Maybe she does know who you are.

‘You’re only saying what you think I want to hear.’ He leans forward again. His face is so close to hers that a tiny incremental movement from either of them, would have them touching.

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t blink, her open eyes not leaving his face. 

‘Are you mocking me?’

There is the slightest hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips, but she doesn’t waver, doesn’t give. ‘What gave me away?’ Her tone is shy, coquettish. ‘So, what should I call you?’

‘You can call me Ben.’

‘Is that your real name, Ben?’

She moves back, sitting on her heels, creating more space between them. He watches as her chest expands with each breath.

‘Does it matter?’ He asks. He would love to follow her, shorten the distance she has created, force her back into his space.

Lowering her chin, she continues to regard him from under her lashes. ‘No, Habibi. It doesn’t matter to me in the least.’

‘You never answered my question.’ To give his hands something to do, he runs it through his hair. ‘Do you like what you do?’

‘I like it enough to keep coming back.’ She giggles.

Oh, what a sound. 

The giggle sets off a myriad of physical reactions his body is not used to.

‘How about you? Do you like what you do?’ She asks.

Ben stays silent, really not sure how to answer that. Yes, he likes what he does, running his own business, being his own boss. 

‘Oh, you’re one of those that both hate and love what they do.’ It’s a simple statement, but from her lips it sounds like an accusation.

‘Can’t everybody say that?’

Her hands reach behind her and she shifts her legs so that she rest her chin on her pulled up knees. There is a certain look of disdain on her face, which seems eerily familiar to him.

‘People only do what they hate because they must. People only do what they love because they want to. Most people are unable to do both.’

Maybe she doesn’t know your name, but she most definitely knows who you are.

‘But people like you always get to do what they want.’ Again, it leaves her lips like it’s a basic truth, but it’s as if she has seen all of his self-loathing and is pulling it up to the surface.

It’s hard to find his voice when under her microscope. ‘I do?’

‘You love being able to control people.’

‘I do!’ he replies. ‘I most certainly do, and yet I can’t get you to do what I want.’

‘And what is that?’

For a few moments the silence comes alive again and she watches as his jaw works. His brows are drawn and his intense gaze seems to be burning through her. 

Ben leans forward slowly, his right index finger beckoning her towards him. He stills as she mirrors his move, until she is back between his opened legs. Gently, as if she may spook easily, he reaches forward and trails his hand down her cheek.

‘Show me who you are.’

The very breath seems to escape her in a quiet sigh, but she sits still and silent.

‘What is your real name?’

He leans forward further, their faces only inches apart, and she can feel his breath ghosting along her skin. He smells of whisky and musk and man.

Her eyes follow the panes of his face, first his chin, then his lips, up to his eyes. The corner of her lips turn ever so slightly, not able to hide a smirk. It makes the skin along her neck prickle.

‘How old are you?’ He pushes again.

‘Old enough.’ Her voice is cold and calculating. She gets up, takes his empty glass from him, walks to the drinks cabinet and pours him another one. 

‘How long have you been doing this?’

Her legs carry her back to him and she gradually lowers herself back into her previous position. Her hand holds his drink out to him.

‘Dancing, or talking to you?’ The hair falls gently across her shoulder as she bends her neck. Her lips purse slightly, tugging into a trivial smile. ‘3 years.’

‘Do you take on private work?’

‘I’m not a prostitute, if that is what you’re asking.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Then what are you asking?’

‘How much would you need to stop doing this?’

‘This?’ Her voice takes on a defensive tone.

He harrumphs. ‘Selling yourself, bit by bit.’

For a moment he sees how her teeth grind, her jaw contracts, and her eyes hard.

‘You don’t know anything! This allows me to finish college. This puts a roof over my head and food on my table.’

Her tiny rib cage expands in irritated inhales and exhales.

You’ve done it now! You’ve gone too far!

There seems to be a second where she considers her temper, but instead of increasing the tension, she moves her head ever so slightly.

She raises herself from where she sits, hands on either side of his legs. Moving along his seated body, ghosting across his lap, up his chest and neck. Pausing her mouth next to his ear. ‘You don’t know anything, do you?’

‘I know that I am not allowed to touch you.’

A shivering exhale leaves her and he almost doesn’t hear her ‘You are.’

For a moment they are both still, before he grabs her waist and pulls her flush to his body. She lands on his lap, her hands still on the side of the chair. A surprised huff escapes her lips.

‘And you? Are you allowed to touch as you please?’ He enquires.

‘Within reason.’

He puts down his glass further along his seat. One hand still grabbing her waist, whilst the now free hand reaches for her cheek.

‘Whose reason?’

‘Mine.’

‘They don’t own you then?’

‘Nobody owns me. I own myself.’ She leans all the way into his half embrace. 

With his free hand, he trails her throat, in between her breasts and down her stomach before it goes to the other hip.

Whilst he is intent on examining and learning her every curve, she lifts her head to watch him in his ministrations.

‘Do you usually try to buy whatever you want?’

‘When I see something I want, yes.’

‘Something? Am I a something now?’

His large hands skim back to her hips and he pulls her back up to sit fully his lap.

‘You can’t buy me.’ She states, as her top teeth rake along her lower lip.

‘What if I asked you out for dinner?’

‘I don’t date members of this establishment.’

‘I’m not a member of his establishment.’

Ben has always had a knack at reading other people’s body language. Understanding the minutiae of each expression and their meanings.

But now, when her eyebrows lift slightly and she shifts on his lap, grinding body parts together which intoxicates him more than all the alcohol he’s imbibed tonight, he realizes he hasn’t been able to get a read on her at all.

‘Maybe.’ She squirms slightly, as if preparing to remove herself from her seat.

He is much more demanding this time when taking her hips in his hands until he has maneuvered her flush to his chest.

‘Give me something!’ He demands.

‘You take whatever you want.’ 

‘I know that your name isn’t Kira.’

The girl extradites herself from his grasp and shimmies back until she manages to stand. 

Like a planet stuck under her gravitational influence, he follows. Reaching for her, he pulls her down onto the sofa next to him.

Surprise flashes across her face before she quickly manages to school her features. ‘Stop playing games with me.’ He nearly pleads. ‘What time do you finish.’

‘So, you can swoop in on your white horse and carry me off into the sunset?’

‘You don’t need saving, as you keep telling me.’ His statement is so earnest that this time the surprise stays on her face. Long fingers gently skim across the wrist he is holding.

‘What is it that you want then? You want to control me?’ She watches as his fingertips dance across her skin. She inhales. ‘You want to own me?’

He swallows and shakes his head.

‘You want to fuck me until I can’t walk?’

He raises an eyebrow disdainfully. ‘I want to talk to you.’

She laughs.

‘Is that so unheard of?’ His voice dubious.

She regards him, teeth back on her lower lip, biting into its plumpness.

‘In this line of profession, it is.’

‘I want to know what you like, and what you want out of life.’ He states.

She doesn’t believe you.

‘I want to look after you, not because I think you need me to. But simply because you want me to.’

She gets up slowly, like prey moving away from predator. Her eyes are downcast as she retreats until her back bumps into one of the cabinets lining the wall. 

‘Ah.’ Her voice is quiet and breathy.

‘And, yes, I want to fuck you until you can’t walk.’ Trying to soften the truth, he flashes her the Solo grin and hopes for the best. He finishes his drink and stands up. Still stuck in her orbit, he can’t seem to help himself follow her.

‘That’s a lot to offer a girl like me.’

Her shoulders feel smooth and warm under his hands as he twists her to face him.

‘I think you deserve it. Don’t you?’ He questions, his eyes probing her. 

‘I see.’ She whispers. ‘You aren’t the knight in shining armour after all.’

Her smell is intoxicating.

Slowly he shakes his head.

Watching his movement, her body stills, and he feels her muscles tense.

She doesn’t believe you.

He advances with deliberate precision, taking his time. His head inclining, one of his hands dancing along her clavicle, before reaching her chin and tilting it up to meet his. 

The music stops. The only sound left in the room is their agitated breathing.

‘I think our time is up.’ She whispers.

He takes a step back and regards her, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I still don’t know your name.’

‘It’s Rey with an e.’ She states, with a sad little smile on her lips that he wishes he could take away with him. Something to keep in his pocket, to regard whenever he wants to.

And you know you will want to.

‘Nice to meet you Rey with an e.’

He fishes out a business card and hands it to her. She regards it for a few seconds before taking it, eyes skimming across what is written on it.

‘Nice to meet you Ben with an e.’

‘Give me a call if you change your mind about dinner.’

Before he can say anything else, do anything else, she is out of the door and he is once again alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly: Thank you for sticking with me and reading the whole thing!
> 
> Secondly: I apologize! This piece of verbal diarrhea has been a WIP for about a year... un-beta'd so you have nobody to blame but me for any mistakes.
> 
> I have no idea where it came from or where it was wanting to go. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> c


End file.
